


rummaging for answers in the pages

by brownheadedstranger



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-30
Updated: 2013-11-30
Packaged: 2018-01-03 00:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brownheadedstranger/pseuds/brownheadedstranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>high school au, aka shameless fluff. louis goes to harry's after a bad date.</p>
            </blockquote>





	rummaging for answers in the pages

**Author's Note:**

> a) self indulgent b) mostly writing to prove that i still, you know, can. i have other things at least half written...they'll be out once i've graduated / am unemployed, which is soon.

The snow has started falling in earnest when Louis parks his truck in front of Harry’s house. He’s cold, frustrated, and in desperate need of a drink. Preferably something strong and disgusting to compensate for tonight’s fuck-up.

“I’m here!” Louis calls out to no one in particular, shutting the front door once he’s inside. He toes off his boots and hangs his coat on the rack, moving from the foyer into the kitchen like muscle memory. Harry’s nowhere to be found, never even responded to Louis’s text, so he takes it upon himself to dig through the fridge for some orange juice. Granted, he could be doing this in his own home—literally just next door—but here, there aren’t four little girls vying for his attention. He loves them, obviously, but every teenage boy needs a Friday night off now and then.

Gemma shows up not several minutes later, dressed for going out with an overnight bag slung over her shoulder. She doesn’t seem too surprised to find Louis standing in her kitchen.

“You look nice,” she says, dropping her bag and reaching around him to put dishes in the sink. “Things go well with Grimshaw?”

“It’s only eight o’clock,” he says flatly. “What do you think?”

She makes a face. “Point taken. Does Harry know you’re here?”

“I texted him, but to no avail.” He shrugs like it’s nothing, because for all he complains, they both know this is standard Harry behavior. “Hey, wait. Did you pay attention _at all_ in physics today?”

Gemma rolls her eyes. “No. Oh my god, I’m going to fail that test next week. It’s worth, like, fifteen percent of our grade.”

Louis sighs, wondering if it’s a good or bad sign that the smartest girl in the senior class isn’t faring that much better than him. Still, she’s bound to know more than she’s letting on. “Would you want to study this weekend?” he asks.

She gives him a wry smile. “Yeah, sure. You’ll probably be here, anyway.”

“Hey now—”

But they’re interrupted by Harry, who stomps into the kitchen, hardly in control of his oversized limbs that seem to have developed overnight. He’s wearing bed clothes: his Hollister hoodie, flannel pajamas, and wool socks. Louis frowns, feeling severely overdressed in his button-up and jeans.

“Well, hello there,” Harry gets out, scrubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. “Didn’t realize we were having a party.”

Louis arches a brow. “Were you sleeping?”

Harry blinks. “No?”

“Liar. I _texted_ you.”

“M’phone’s dead,” Harry says simply, hopping onto the kitchen island counter. His feet hang just above the tiled floor, and Louis can remember when they dangled much higher than they do now. He turns to Gemma. “And where are you going?”

“I’ll be at Will’s,” she says imperiously, half-glaring at him like she’s daring him to say more. “He’s having a party and I’m spending the night.”

“It’s snowing out,” Harry replies matter-of-factly.

“Thank god it’s an indoor party.” She sticks her tongue out, only to have Harry reciprocate. “If Mom calls, I’m sleeping. Don’t forget that you owe me after what happened with Dusty last week.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he says, winking over at Louis. “You should leave before it gets really nasty out.”

“Whatever.” But she grabs her bag all the same, leaving loud, smacking kisses on both their cheeks before disappearing out the front door.

Harry wipes at his face and looks over at Louis. “So. How’d the date go?”

Louis scowls and pushes his glass of juice toward Harry. “ _Please_ tell me you have vodka somewhere in this house.”

“That bad, then?” And Harry actually smirks, the little shit. “Tell me about it, stud.”

“Nope, no.” Louis holds up a finger. “I won’t have you tarnishing the sanctity of that movie. At least, not until I’m too drunk to remember.”

Harry’s face changes into something gentler, which. No. Louis did not come here for pity. “Is everything—”

“Harry,” Louis warns.

“Did Aiden try something with you?” Harry looks so sincerely distressed and Louis would find it so endearing, if he weren’t very much not interested in discussing this.

He reaches out and softly squeezes Harry’s elbow. “Listen, I’ll be fine. I just don’t want to talk about it, if that’s okay.”

Harry glances down at the hand wrapped around his arm. “You’ll talk about it if it’s _my_ liquor you want.”

Louis drops his hand and groans. Somehow, the whole thing seems too...fresh. Too recent to poke and prod at. Because it’s kind of embarrassing, right, how he’s never gone on a date before, not in the same way that Harry probably has, and he’s only a _sophomore_. Because it’s hard being out in high school, and harder still being one of the few in his year. It’s not exactly something he’d expect Harry to sympathize with easily.

And Aiden—well, he’d always been nice to Louis, decent enough to disregard whatever rumors he’d heard about him beforehand and ask him out in the middle of homeroom, anyway. He seemed interested and sweet, and it’s the kind of disappointment from learning otherwise that Louis can’t bring himself to acknowledge out loud yet.

“Harry,” he tries again.

But Harry doesn’t budge, just stares at him.

“Ugh, fine.” Louis bites his lip, fixes his gaze downward on the grout between the tiles. “I’m not, like, _sad_ or anything, by the way. Just that, well, he texted me when I pulled into the Olive Garden parking lot and asked me if I wanted to skip dinner and meet him at his house instead.” He smiles ruefully as the full weight of what happened hits him. “He asked me to bring lube, and I told him to fuck off.”

When Louis lifts his head, he sees Harry glaring straight ahead, his knuckles white and his hands balled into fists. “Are you kidding me?”

Louis shakes his head. “Harry, it’s not worth it—”

“He’s a fucking _dick_ ,” Harry says, heartfelt.

“Yeah, well.” Louis lets his shoulders bob up and down. “Like I said, I’ll be fine. Mostly, I just want to know where he got that idea. He’s on the soccer team, but I didn’t think Tom would have said anything. He seemed pretty adamant about keeping things quiet afterward.”

Harry’s expression softens when he glances at Louis from the corner of his eye. “That wasn’t your fault, though.”

“Might’ve been,” Louis sighs. “Make the mistake of hooking up with one boy, and suddenly they’ll all think you’re gagging for it.”

“But you’re _not_ ,” Harry insists, a bit of childlike stubbornness shining through.

“It’s not a big deal, I swear. I just...wanted a real date, for once?” Louis huffs out a defeated laugh. “Sorry, that’s dumb.”

Harry frowns, his forehead crumpling with concern. It’s funny how, for all he’s grown recently, Harry still seems very much like the child Louis has been best friends with since moving into the house next door, all green eyes and pink lips and flushed cheeks. Sure, he’s Gemma’s age, but Louis has always _known_ Harry better, from trading clothes at school to singing Blink-182 songs together at the talent show to that one time he stuck gum in Harry’s curls in a fit of misguided jealousy over his new GameCube. Now, Harry’s sweaters hang off Louis after broadening out over the summer. His voice has given way to a husky baritone, and his hair has since turned into a mess of waves styled messily atop his head in a way that somehow works. Harry’s puberty has been effortless in a way that Louis’s never was, and it’s almost unfair how he’s come out the opposite end entirely different yet exactly the same. Beautiful but with the same big heart.

That’s something new, too: the way Louis can appreciate Harry’s appearance from an entirely objective viewpoint. When he thinks about it, it’s not altogether different from how he can acknowledge Gemma—or Anne, even—for having a nice face to look at. But still, it often feels like something he should keep to himself.

“No, it’s not,” Harry says, bringing him back. He’s still watching Louis contemplatively. “Dumb, I mean. It’s not. Everyone deserves a real date. A good date.”

Louis shrugs. It’ll just be his lot in life to never have that experience. He’s like Joan of Arc, in a way. Or something like that. “Eventually,” he says. “Maybe when I’ve got a reputation I’ve actually earned. Not one that makes me sound cooler than I really am.”

Apparently that’s the wrong thing to say to Harry, who gives him soulful, basset hound eyes.

“Okay, no.” Louis pokes Harry in the forehead, startling him. “Self-deprecation hour is over. No talk of dates or dumb boys who can’t even remember to buy lube. Now, where’s the vodka?”

“Oh.” Harry’s lips curl into a sly grin. “The parents took everything with them to the Christmas party. We’re out.”

Louis blinks like he’s had the rug pulled out from under him. “You...lied?”

Harry’s preening now. “But I got you to talk, didn’t I?”

Louis is about to respond to that, something about how smugness is unbecoming and Harry should really try for some humility one of these days, when his stomach grumbles and cuts him off. He spares a brief mournful thought for the breadsticks he never had before Harry snorts and jumps off the counter, patting Louis’s cheek on his way to the fridge.

“Go change into something more comfortable and I’ll get started on some dinner.” Harry rolls his eyes when Louis falters in the doorway. “Seriously, _go_.”

\--

Of course nothing in Harry’s freak closet fits a normal person, so Louis comes toddling back downstairs in old sweatpants and a ratty athletic tee Harry probably hasn’t worn since middle school. But it’s comforting, in a way, and he already feels the evening’s earlier tension slowly seeping from his body.

“Nice look,” Harry remarks, looking up briefly when Louis returns to the kitchen.

“Shut it,” Louis says absently, sidling up next to where Harry’s rummaging through the pantry. “The snow’s really picking up outside. You can barely see out to the driveway.”

“All the more reason for a night in.” Harry emerges with an armful of supplies, wheeling around and kicking the door shut on his way to the chopping block. “Grab a knife, yeah?”

Louis does as he’s told, setting the blade down and pointing it away from any indispensable body parts. “This doesn’t look like grilled cheese.”

Harry pauses. “That’s because I’m not making grilled cheese?”

“Oh. Must’ve just assumed from past experience.” Louis looks at the shallot in Harry’s hand to the vegetables sitting near the sink. “What’re we having, then?”

“Risotto,” Harry says simply. “With asparagus, mushrooms, and artichoke hearts. That all right?”

Louis’ knees nearly buckle. “Definitely. How can I help?”

Harry gives him a shrewd look. “By staying far, far away from me. I’m trying to make us something _edible_.”

“You wound me.” But Louis shuffles over anyway, crowding up behind Harry so they’re pressed together and slipping his arms around his waist. He huffs through his nose when he has to strain a bit to get his chin on Harry’s shoulder. “I must’ve been a very good boy in a previous life to deserve a friend like you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry says, but Louis catches the tinge of pink creeping up his neck, the pleased little smile as he dices the shallot. “We’re going to end up fingerless if you don’t move.”

Louis hums, nuzzles into the soft hairs above Harry’s neck before pulling away. “Wouldn’t want that.”

But he keeps a safe distance all the same, perching himself on the kitchen island and making stray comments about Harry’s meticulous mushroom-slicing technique, or how he’s forgotten to bring the broth to a simmer. All it does is earn him a kitchen towel in the face, but they’re laughing and this is much, _much_ better than a date at the stupid Olive Garden. He says as much aloud, and Harry’s expression turns unreadable for half a moment before he’s rolling his eyes and saying _well, obviously_.

“Wait.” Louis straightens his posture and points at Harry accusingly. “What is that?”

Harry’s eyes go wide until he realizes that Louis is pointing at the bottle of white wine he’s just pulled out of the cabinet. “Oh. Um. Nothing?”

“You lied. Again!” Louis frowns aggressively. “You said you were out.”

“Of liquor, yes.” Harry uncorks the bottle and pours a healthy amount into the saucepan, backing away when it hisses and sends a cloud of steam in the air. “This is for cooking.”

“I want,” Louis says, reaching out with grabby hands. “Just a bit. Wine’s for _drinking_ , Harry. Not for proving you can make a fancy meal.”

“I’m not trying to prove anything.” Actual frustration seems to color his words, but before Louis can point it out, Harry’s already reaching into the cupboard for a glass. “Not a lot, okay? I know how you get, and I don’t want you falling asleep on me before the night’s over.”

Louis would joke about how one bottle isn’t technically _a lot_ , not by his standards, but there’s something in Harry’s eyes he can’t quite place, and it suddenly seems very important he stick to only one glass. It’s not like they’d made solid plans to hang out tonight or anything, what with Louis’s date and all, but he figures it wouldn’t be fair to ruin Harry’s night as well.

“Fine,” Louis says, mostly to be difficult. Yet even then, he limits himself to a third of a glass. “But just because I love you.”

Harry snorts. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“Nah.” Louis swishes his wine around. “Just you.”

\--

Dinner gets to the table with minimal fuss. That is, Harry manages to throw together a simple tomato salad to serve alongside the risotto all the while Louis putters around him uselessly. To be fair, he offers to add the splash of cream at the end, but Harry smacks at him, saying something about _I’d like risotto, thanks, not rice pudding_.

Whatever.

With a beautiful, homemade meal in front of him, Louis can’t find any reason to complain. There’s a candle between them—brown sugar, because dessert scents are all the Styleses ever have—and it’s soppy, yes, but so very much like _Harry_ that Louis can’t help but smile every time he drinks from his glass.

“You know how to wine and dine them, Styles.” Louis wipes at his mouth with a napkin. “I’m impressed. If this were a real date, you’d get in my pants, no problem.”

Inexplicably, Harry’s face turns bright red across the table. That’s weird, Louis thinks; he’s definitely said worse before. But he’ll let it go.

Harry clears his throat. “It’s nothing. Honestly.”

“Are you kidding?” Louis stabs an artichoke heart with his fork and holds it up. “The one time I tried making an artichoke, I boiled the whole thing. _This_ ,” he waves his fork around, “is not nothing. You treat me right, H.”

“Yeah. Well.” Harry shrugs, offering a soft smile. “You’re low-maintenance.”

Louis barks a laugh at that. “No I’m not.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry agrees, laughing too.

Louis chases a rogue tomato around his plate, careful not to follow it into the mound of risotto. Everything’s been delicious so far, which shouldn’t really surprise him, but he tends to forget that Harry can actually cook. From what he understands, everyone at school loves Harry, knows him as _Harry_ and not _Gemma Styles’s younger brother_ , so he can only imagine what kind of reputation he’d have with girls if they knew he could feed them, too.

The thought makes Louis shift uncomfortably in his seat. He’s never been especially great at sharing.

“So,” he says, meaning to change the topic to something safe, like Man U or this week’s episodes of _The Voice_. But his last train of thought has left him wanting to know more, and what comes out instead is, “Who else have you done this for?”

Harry’s brow creases in confusion. “What?”

Louis swallows around a particularly rough bit of mushroom. They don’t...really talk about this. Not because they’re not close enough, because they definitely are, but he’s never really cared to know about the sordid details of Harry’s love life. Harry’s a charmer—that much is obvious. But what matters is that neither of them have had a serious relationship yet, and until they reach that point, Louis doesn’t think he needs to hear about every girl who couldn’t quite make the cut. Maybe it makes him a bad friend, but that’s his cross to bear.

“Like,” Louis starts. “Dinner. Have you done this for a lot of dates, or is it more for a special occasion?”

Harry lowers his fork. “I haven’t,” he says slowly. “I mean, I’ve never...just now.”

“Not even Taylor?” And okay, even as a senior, Louis has heard _some_ things. Chalk it up to some old-fashioned curiosity, or going to a small fucking high school.

“No,” Harry says, blushing. He’s running his hands along the tablecloth, not quite looking at Louis. “It was never really like that with her? We never—nothing serious. Plus, she was older so she always drove places when we went out and it was weird, kinda, like having a chaperone all the time. I didn’t like it.” He looks up at that last part, intense and focused like he’s making a point.

“Oh.” Louis sips from his water, nerves randomly prickling in his stomach. “You mean you didn’t like her.”

“I liked her just fine,” Harry amends, because he’s a good person like that. “But not in _that_ way. The whole thing was weird, I guess.”

Louis ignores the strange sense of relief settling in. “So no home-cooked meals?”

Harry shakes his head. “Like you said, special occasion,” he says, giving a lopsided shrug.

“Well, I’m honored to be your trial run,” Louis says, taking a happy bite of risotto. “And hey, that’s kind of nice to hear, actually.”

“How so?” Harry asks, wary.

“It means you haven’t gone on a real date either.” Louis grins. “And that’s only fair, because I refuse to lose out to _some sophomore_.”

“Hey,” Harry says mildly, and Louis doesn’t miss his shoulders slumping, or how he’s staring down at a puddle of salad dressing with his lower lip caught between his teeth. “I hate when you do that.”

Louis kicks at him under the table, failing to get Harry to look up. “Do what?”

“Treat me like a kid.” He meets Louis’s eyes, a hint of guardedness there. “And I’m not just some sophomore.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Louis rushes. For a moment, he flashes back to his first day of kindergarten, and then again to middle school, both times when Harry had teared up and asked why he couldn’t go with Louis. “You know I didn’t. It’s just. You’ve got time, yeah?”

Harry stares.

“I’m about halfway done through my final year and I haven’t done it yet,” he continues. Harry looks skeptical then, and Louis rolls his eyes. “Okay, not _that_ , but—I dunno, the important stuff. Like romance and everything. I haven’t been _wooed_ , Harry. And if I haven’t been wooed, who’s to say I’ll ever fall in love, like for real?” He rarely ever gets this sentimental, this earnest, but it all comes rushing out of him without warning.

Harry’s eyes go wide, seem a little glassy in the dim lighting. “You will. Lou, you…of course, you will.”

Louis chuckles dryly. “Not when every guy thinks of me like I’m an easy lay.”

“I don’t think of you that way,” Harry says, low but fierce.

Louis looks down, smiling ruefully. “Yeah I know, but you don’t count that way, no offense. Besides.” He takes a deep breath to center himself and glances up. “You’re my best friend. I’d be thoroughly unimpressed if you did.”

“You’re always impressed with me,” Harry points out. “You just said it yourself.”

“Semantics,” Louis grumbles, though he’s secretly thankful for the change in subject.

They’re quiet for long enough that he can go back to picking at the rest of his food. He gets to the last artichoke spear on his plate when he feels a hand carefully slide over his arm sitting uselessly on the table. When he looks up, Harry is watching him with a little half-smile, and the prickling in Louis’s stomach starts up again.

“As your best friend,” Harry says, the words dripping out slowly like he’s thinking about every syllable. “I feel like I should tell you that I think the world of you, Louis Tomlinson.”

Louis groans and shakes Harry’s hand off, mostly to distract from the blush taking his cheeks hostage. “Sappy. So, _so_ sappy.”

Harry cackles madly, grabbing Louis’s arm again and pinning it down. “Sappy but true. You’ll get your great love yet, I promise.”

“Right,” he says, catching the way Harry’s fingers flex against his skin in his periphery. “And with any luck, we’ll have kick-ass first dates.”

There’s a pause, and then Harry lets go of Louis’s arm, but not before patting his wrist once. “That’s the spirit.”

\--

Half an hour later, Louis’s sitting on the couch in the living room and tapping his socked feet against the floorboard. He’s been watching the _(500) Days of Summer_ DVD menu on loop for the better part of the last five minutes and he might actually go mad with restlessness if he doesn’t get the real thing soon.

“Harry!”

A moment of silence before the frantic beeping of a microwave followed by Harry’s whispered _shit, shit, shit_ s filters in from the kitchen. Louis smirks. “Coming!” Harry calls. “I’ll be right there!”

He comes in not two minutes later, sitting next to Louis and squeezing a giant bowl between them as best as he can. Louis frowns and peers in cautiously, grinning a little in disbelief when he realizes what he’s looking at.

“Really?” he asks, with enough awe that Harry actually laughs.

“Relax, Lou.” Harry taps his nose once, twice. “It’s just popcorn.”

“Yeah, but with chocolate chips.” Louis digs around for a handful. “And _marshmallows_. You’re the best.”

Harry plays it off, but Louis sees a smug smile playing on his lips. It really is just popcorn, but it’s also Louis’s favorite, has been since their first sleepover all those years ago, and Harry knows that. Harry just seems to know everything about Louis. Must be one of the fringe benefits of living out of each other’s pockets for so long.

They start the movie after Louis stomps on Harry’s feet one too many times in his impatience. Harry pretends to mind, even shoves popcorn in Louis’ face until he leaves behind streaks of melted chocolate and falls against the cushions, laughing breathlessly while Louis frowns down at him severely.

“I’m trying to enjoy the movie here,” Louis says, wiping away some chocolate with his finger and sucking it into his mouth. He might imagine the way Harry tracks the movement.

Harry blinks. “Like you haven’t seen it a million times.”

“Beside the point. They’re both very nice to look at.” Louis grabs another handful from the bowl, which he moves to the coffee table. “Okay, come on. I want to get comfortable.”

Harry acts like he doesn’t know what Louis’s trying to do. “Then get comfortable.”

Louis stares at him, unimpressed. “Then _move_ , yeti.”

Harry lets loose a surprised laugh as he relents and rearranges his spaghetti limbs to accommodate both of them. Falling onto his back, he stacks several throw pillows beneath his head and squirms aside until there’s just enough space for Louis to lie down beside him. “Well?” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

“You’re disgusting.” But Louis flicks the lamp off and settles in the allotted space that has his back plastered to Harry’s front. “No funny business, okay?”

He feels Harry’s laugh against his nape, warm breaths puffing on his skin. “No promises.”

By the time the main credits start, Louis is bouncing against Harry, who’s gone mysteriously still behind him. He just really loves this movie, is the thing.

“Must you do this each time?” Harry asks, voice gone slightly higher.

Louis pays him no mind. “Shh. I love this soundtrack.”

“You mean you love Regina Spektor.”

“So what,” Louis says. “Sue me.” Then the split screen images of a younger Joseph Gordon-Levitt and Zooey Deschanel come up, and he can’t help but sing along the way he does every other time. “ _They made a statue of us...and then put it on a mountaintop!_ ”

Rough fingers dig into his side and he spasms with it, elbowing hard behind him and breathing out in relief once he hears Harry grunting in pain. “What the fuck was that for?” he wheezes.

Louis cranes his head to the side until he sees the sliver of Harry’s face illuminated by the television screen. “I said no funny business.”

“You were singing,” Harry argues weakly.

“Yeah, but you _like_ it.”

Harry doesn’t respond to that, just pushes at Louis’s shoulder until he obliges and looks away. Louis is about to break into the bridge of the song when Harry’s arms cinch around his waist, hauling him in and holding him there like a steady weight. He can’t quite breathe right away, no matter how many years of conditioning he’s had to get used to this. In the greater context of tonight, it _feels_ different, and his body is still taut from the sudden lack of space—not like there was much to begin with.

But Harry senses it immediately, of course he does, and he squeezes around Louis’s body until he gives in and melts against him. Louis can smell Harry’s apple shampoo from here and he’s okay again.

“You’re annoying,” Louis lets out quietly, the movie momentarily forgotten.

Harry hums, runs his nose through Louis’s hair. “Whatever.” Louis hears him inhale. “I made you dinner.” Like he’s breathing him in. “This is only fair.”

Louis nods dumbly, focusing instead on the feeling of Harry petting absently at his hip.

\--

“So I have good news. Well, good news for us. Not so much for my parents.”

Louis looks up from the episode of _Friends_ they’ve been watching since they finished the movie. Harry’s standing in the entryway to the living room, the tiniest smidge of concern washing across his face. He pockets his phone.

“Hit me,” Louis says.

“They’re snowed in,” Harry explains. “The storm’s really bad where they are, apparently, so they’re staying at their friends’ house.” He glances over at the window, where Louis can see how the night has practically turned white outside. “‘S better this way.”

Louis’s heart sinks seeing Harry like this, pigeon-toed and hovering between two rooms like he doesn’t know where to go. It’s second grade all over again, when he’d stayed with the Tomlinsons for half a week because Gemma had come home with the chicken pox and his parents didn’t want him anywhere he could catch it. By the third night, Louis’s mom had come downstairs to find the two of them hugging by the front door: Louis had intercepted Harry after he tried to run back home, afraid that his family had stopped loving him and he’d never see them again.

Harry knows better than that now, obviously, but that doesn’t stop traces of a 7-year-old’s fear from shining through. Louis reaches out, gestures for Harry to come sit down.

“Y’all right?” He rubs a soothing hand up Harry’s spine.

“Huh?” Harry looks over at him. He blinks and rolls his shoulders, like he’s shaking himself out of it. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

Louis smiles. “Good.”

“D’you wanna stay over?” Harry pushes hair from out of his face only to have it all come swooping down over his forehead. “I mean. You should just stay over. The weather’s crap, and I’m all alone in this house otherwise.”

Louis almost laughs; like he had any plans of going out in the snow at all, even if it was just to go next door. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I’ll stay.”

Harry beams, looking nothing at all like he did only half a minute ago. He massages the back of his neck, eyes flitting to Louis almost nervously. “So. Did you wanna finish up down here, or do you want to head upstairs?”

Shrugging, Louis looks around. The TV’s still on, and Monica is trying to wheedle a secret chocolate chip cookie recipe from Phoebe. Louis knows how this ends, has probably watched this very episode with Harry before, so he flicks the screen off with the remote and stands up, stretching and cracking his back as he goes. Harry hasn’t moved, apparently waiting for Louis to verbalize the next step.

“Up and away, then?” Louis holds out his hand.

Harry takes a moment to catch up, and then hoists himself up by holding onto Louis. They turn off the lights together, moving from the living room into the kitchen where their dishes sit stacked in the sink for tomorrow morning, and then out into the foyer to switch the porch light off, too. Before climbing upstairs, Harry’s hand finds Louis’s in the dark and it’s for guidance purposes, Louis tells himself, and absolutely nothing else.

They walk into Harry’s room like they’ve done countless times before, Louis turning on the desk lamp like muscle memory while Harry plugs his phone into his laptop to charge. Louis eyes Harry’s bed, still crumpled and unmade from his earlier nap, and he realizes he doesn’t know where he wants to sleep tonight.

Normally, they’d end up squished together on Harry’s twin-sized mattress, much like they’d been together earlier on the couch. But Harry’s gone through that fucking growth spurt, and Louis’s been so busy this semester applying to colleges and working on his senior project that he hasn’t really had the time to sleep over and figure out how his body fits with Harry’s new one. He can’t imagine it’d be much different, but tonight also doesn’t seem like the proper night to find out.

So as Harry goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, Louis digs through the linen closet in the hallway and comes back with flat sheets and blankets to pile into a sort-of mattress on the floor, right next to Harry’s real bed. He steals one of Harry’s pillows, though, and by the time he’s sprawled out on the ground, it’s not the worst thing in the world. Moderately comfortable, in fact.

“Um.”

Louis winks one eye open and spots Harry leaning against the doorjamb, amusement but also confusion fighting on his face. “Yes?”

“That’s, um.” Harry shuts the door behind him and moves to the desk, fingers hovering over the lamp switch. “So that’s where you’re sleeping, then?”

“Yeah,” Louis says, twisting his fingers in the folds of his blanket. “I figured...I dunno, it makes sense. You’re bony and I’m wide, so it’s better if I’m down here.”

“You’re not _wide_ ,” Harry says automatically, turning the light off and plunging everything into darkness. Well, not exactly darkness, since the white of the snow falling outside has the room a soft, glowing purple. Louis watches as Harry climbs into bed, burrowing beneath the sheets until only his head is poking out over the edge of the mattress.

This close, Louis thinks, he’d only have to strain his neck slightly to bop Harry’s forehead with his own. So he does.

Harry chuckles, a little breathless. “So...goodnight?”

Louis sinks back into his makeshift bed. “Yeah.”

There’s a moment where they both just stare at each other, Harry’s eyes glinting from above Louis. But he’s the first to break it, feeling rather sheepish as he turns over onto his side and breathes in deep, pointedly not wondering if Harry’s gone and done the same thing.

\--

Louis wakes up not even an hour later with his face smushed into his pillow, shoved there because he thought the slight asphyxiation would help curb his overactive mind. Or something. As it is, his brain’s gone cloudy with a million thoughts and he’s cold even under all the blankets, like his body just _knows_ about the warmth it’s missing only several feet away.

Harry made him dinner. Harry made him dinner because Aiden had been an utter cock, and Harry’s the brilliant sort of best friend that doesn’t ask questions when Louis shows up unannounced with his tail between his legs. Harry’s made him dinner before: usually grilled cheeses and fajitas that, yes, are consistently good, but don’t really mean anything beyond _Louis is coming over and he’s hungry_. Tonight, however, Harry made a Dinner with risotto and a tomato salad— _a tomato salad_ —which is an important distinction worth making, even if it’s all just a myth in his mind.

Then they cuddled. Louis flops onto his stomach and lets loose a low, strangled sound because that was a cuddle earlier on the couch, without a doubt. They’ve cuddled before, friendly little cuddles that seemed the logical conclusion between two naturally tactile people. But tonight was different, because everything else about tonight was different.

Louis slowly turns his head to peer up at Harry’s bed. He can’t see him from this angle, but it’s mostly comforting to know that Harry’s here anyway, Louis’s personal crisis notwithstanding.

The thing is, they’ve always been this way. No one ever questions their relationship because anyone who knows them understands; it’s nothing that can be dissected and analyzed like some sort of experiment. So Louis can’t understand why it took a shitty date and a blizzard for him to ever start.

Harry is everything Louis has ever needed. That much he’s sure of, knows it in his bones like gospel. But how and in what capacity, he’s never really had to think about before. What he does know, however, is that Harry is straight, at least as far as he’s concerned, and really, that should help uncomplicate matters quickly.

But of course, it doesn’t, and he’s only pulled from his thoughts when his phone buzzes under his pillow. He reaches under, expecting a late-night follow-up message from Aiden. It wouldn’t be that surprising.

But it’s Harry. _hey, you awake?_

And it’s—so fucking absurd. Louis reads the text again, and then again, and doesn’t ever look up where he knows Harry is awake now. He reads it one more time and that’s all it takes for him to break out laughing. He tries to tamp it down but he can’t, and it doesn’t help that Harry starts laughing, too.

“Oh my god,” Louis gets out, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling. There’s still residue up there from those glow in the dark stickers Harry kept hanging until ninth grade.

“Is that a yes?” Harry manages half a minute later, but it’s a wasted question when they both dissolve into laughter again.

It’s good. It feels good and it breaks the tension in the room. Tension that, granted, probably only Louis can feel, but it helps anyway. At least he’s not really thinking about anything.

So that’s probably why he ends up blurting, “Was tonight a date?”

Harry’s laughter tapers, but doesn’t quite cut off, which Louis takes as a good sign. But the seconds he spends waiting for Harry’s response feel like an eternity.

“Wanna come join me up here?” There’s the sound of Harry shifting over, like he’s already made Louis’s mind up for him. “I don’t want to have this conversation like this.”

“Oh. Yeah, sure.” Louis scrambles up, leaving his phone and blankets behind and sneaking beneath Harry’s duvet in one fluid motion. He ignores the way their knees bump as he shifts around to get comfortable, and it’s only when he’s finally stopped moving that he looks at Harry properly.

He’s rather breathtaking like this, a thought Louis plans on keeping private because it sounds ridiculous even to him. But it’s the truth, from the gentle sweep of Harry’s eyelashes to the bow of his upper lip. There’s a lot more he could point out, but Louis’s particularly focused on that last one.

Harry clears his throat and Louis’s gaze jumps up so they’re looking right at each other. Louis lets out a shaky breath as Harry breathes one in.

“Yes,” Harry says, mouth curving up. “Tonight was a date. Or, at least, I tried to make it one.”

Louis feels his chest tighten. “Oh. Okay.”

“Basically, I’ve been feeling different about you—about us for a while now,” Harry barrels on, staring at Louis the whole time. “And I guess I’ve always kind of known but I didn’t really know what I wanted to do about it until recently.”

“Makes sense,” Louis croaks out.

“Like, you’re my best friend,” Harry says, almost pleading. “You always have been. I just...I don’t know, I like making you happy and I know what that means now. Hence tonight.” He nods a little, almost reassuring both of them. “And I’ve wanted to catch your attention, but I didn’t know how to do it without spooking you or being the annoying younger friend.”

“You’re not the annoying younger friend.” Louis grabs one of Harry’s hands in his own. “Never.”

Harry’s entire face lights up, gaze cast downward to see their hands entwined between them. Louis feels himself swell with affection for this boy, understands it might become a common recurrence.

“You promise?” But it comes out more like he’s teasing Louis, which is probably the point.

Louis rolls his eyes. “Yes.”

Harry scoots closer. “So, do you kiss on the first date?”

“I don’t know what protocol is.” Louis sighs, all for show. He can count the flecks of gold in Harry’s eyes now. “I’ve never been on a date.”

“That’s a lie,” Harry whispers, leaning in.

Louis’ hands automatically fly to Harry’s face, keeping him close as their lips catch. It’s soft, almost unbearably so, and Louis realizes that Harry’s maintaining some space between them when, no, it’s cold and they should be pressed together for body warmth. So he pushes closer, parting his lips at the same time and letting Harry huff out a surprised little laugh before sweeping his tongue out, just to try. Harry kisses back for all he’s worth, letting his hands roam along the planes of Louis’s upper body like he can’t believe he’s allowed to touch. Louis drops another happy kiss on Harry’s bottom lip before pulling away, taking in the sight of a flushed Harry all for him.

It’s a lot to take in all at once, and it’s difficult to gather his bearings, even more so when Harry’s slipping his thigh between Louis’s as he leaves kisses on his jaw, his chin, his neck. Louis squirms under the attention, letting his fingers card through Harry’s curls as he comes down.

“How’re you feeling?” Harry murmurs into his collarbone.

Louis thinks about the words he can’t quite pin down. Instead, he settles for something he hopes will get the point across.

“ _They made a statue of us, and then put—_ ”

But Harry’s quicker, swallowing the rest of his words with another kiss.


End file.
